


hold me close, spinning slow

by fulmentus



Category: Glee
Genre: Always, F/F, Fluff, for naya, they are both very soft, this is literally just
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:56:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27623711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fulmentus/pseuds/fulmentus
Summary: And it’s here — here in the middle of their apartment in New York where Brittany turns them in slow circles, amber lamplight slanting across the living room and casting them aglow — that Santana swears she has never loved Brittany more.
Relationships: Santana Lopez/Brittany S. Pierce
Comments: 8
Kudos: 57





	hold me close, spinning slow

She’s falling asleep.

She doesn’t mean to. Her head lists to the side, and it takes a warm hand sliding from the small of her waist and slipping up her side for Santana to jolt out of her dozing state, eyelids fluttering as she tries to wake herself.

“I still think taking a cab would have been a better idea.”

Santana tips her head up, watches the corner of Brittany’s mouth curl upward, teasing, as her blue eyes alight upon her own. They sparkle under the harsh fluorescence of the subway car, and Santana squints at her.

“A little too late for regrets, Britt.”

Her nose scrunches up because oh, her memories are a little hazy from how long this day has been — it’s barely three in the afternoon, but still — but she does remember Brittany finding her outside of the lecture hall, wondering aloud if taking a cab or taking the subway would have been faster.

( _We’ve barely taken the subway since we started the semester,_ Santana foolishly suggested in the moment, hoisting the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder and taking a long sip from the coffee Brittany brought her. _Maybe we should try it._

Brittany eyed her, a little skeptical and worried, because they had early classes that morning and a cab would probably be faster, but she merely nodded, head canted to one side, like she couldn’t quite believe Santana would choose the subway.

 _Okay, San, if you want to._ )

Brittany angles her body a bit to face her, her hand skating down Santana’s side once more, securing her in place lest she begins listing toward the wall again, and peers at her curiously, gaze probing and soft.

“I think you’re regretting it more than me,” her voice is light, but Santana hears the concern beneath the words, sees it in the way Brittany looks at her again, a crease forming between her brows.

A jolt along the tracks sends Santana tumbling forward, face pressing into Brittany’s collarbone, and all things considered, it isn’t the worst position to be in. Because oh, Brittany is warm and soft and familiar beneath her cheek, and she can feel the urge to sleep edging into her consciousness again.

“The only thing I regret,” Santana mumbles against Brittany’s sweater, “is thinking that an 8AM class on a _Friday_ would be a good idea.”

Brittany laughs above her, nuzzles her nose into the strands of Santana’s hair. “We both decided on an ambitious workload this semester.”

Santana groans. “Why did we pick that again?”

“Because there’s a lot we want to do in life, and we want to graduate as quickly as possible.”

Santana presses her nose more firmly against Brittany’s shoulder, feeling the way Brittany shivers slightly as she brushes against the side of her neck.

“Your nose is cold,” Brittany giggles, tightening her grasp around her, and Santana finds herself sinking deeper into her embrace.

She hums, nestling into the junction between her neck and shoulder, her hands finding purchase on the back of Brittany’s sweater. Despite being surrounded by people on either side of this packed subway car, Brittany is incredibly comfortable, and it’s lulling her into that same exhausted state she was in before.

(It really was bold of her to assume that she would be able to keep up with a morning class considering her track record in high school.

Brittany still teases her about how often she would have to coax her out of bed back then, and even now.)

(It’s not Santana’s fault that their bed is incredibly comfortable and she would rather spend the day snuggling than braving the cold weather and the constant stream of people outside. Not to mention some of the most obnoxious people in her classes.)

Brittany’s fingers dance across her waist, tapping out a rhythm Santana can’t place a name to at the moment, but it feels familiar, the identity of the melody right on the fringe of her memory. The fog of sleep is dragging her under as her eyes flutter shut, so her brain isn’t exactly functioning at its best capacity.

“Go to sleep, San,” Brittany breathes out, laughing a little. “I’ll wake you up when we get to our stop.”

Santana mumbles something indistinct, her thoughts slipping away from her as the drone of the subway car along the tracks and the steady presence of Brittany’s body against hers cause her to succumb to the weariness she’s felt all day.

The world fades around her, and Santana somehow finds sleep standing upright in a subway car.

—

True to her word, Brittany gently shakes her awake at their stop and has to catch her every time she nearly topples over on their way out of the subway.

They take the stairs at a turtle pace, but Santana can’t bring herself to care.

She’s tired and cold, and Brittany is laughing at her under her breath, not even bothering to muffle it.

“Laugh it up, Britt,” she grumbles. “Laugh all you want at my misery.”

“It’s not even that cold,” Brittany says, wrapping her arm around her as they navigate through the torrent of people heading down to the subway and move out of the way of those returning traveling upward to go about their business. “Ohio was arguably colder than this.”

Santana huffs, shoving her hands deep into her coat pockets.

She doesn’t want to admit Brittany’s right — Brittany is always right anyway; she _is_ a genius after all — and grouses, unhappy.

Brittany’s breath is warm against her ear. “We should have taken a cab.”

“Oh my god, Britt,” Santana groans, shoving her away.

Brittany laughs again, bright and happy, and Santana has to stop for a moment, fully aware that she’s in the middle of the street and their apartment is only a few streets down the way, where it’s _warm_ and she can _sleep_ , but Brittany is absolutely stunning.

Her hair, spun and woven gold with the early winter sun shimmering against every strand. Her eyes are blue, blue, blue, glowing as they crinkle at the corners from the intensity of her smile.

Santana stares, unabashed.

(She still can’t believe that she was lucky enough to marry her.)

Brittany’s laughter tapers off, and her smile calms into something more inquisitive, and a little disbelieving, and a lot fond.

“What?” She asks, tilting her head to the side as she grasps her by the arm and guides them out of the way of a few grumbling pedestrians.

Santana barely pays them any attention.

“Nothing—” She manages to get out, a lump of too-big emotions swelling in her chest, and she has to clear her throat when the words come out a little too breathless with wonder. “I’m still in shock that I got to marry the love of my life.”

And oh, she knows she’s being unbelievably cheesy and sappy and she should really wait until they get home before she starts rambling. She knows that she’s doing that thing where her heart can’t stop itself from ridding any thought from her brain that isn’t about Brittany, and it beats fast, fast, fast in her chest, threatening to fall right out and into Brittany’s hands, but she can’t help herself.

She never could when it came to Brittany.

Brittany’s entire countenance softens, and she smiles, looking down at her feet, all bashful.

Santana can feel her dimples as her mouth curls upward, her cheeks aching from the cold and from how large her smile undoubtedly is.

“I'm not,” Brittany whispers, so simple and matter-of-fact, just for her to hear, as she gently takes Santana’s hands from her pockets and holds them between her own. “I love you too.”

And the words press against her chest, slip between the rungs of her ribs. Settle beside her heart and pulse with every beat, pounding a song of its own. If only Santana could find the right words to sing them to her.

New York bustles around them, cars honking and pedestrians grunting and yelling at each other, but in this moment, Santana forgets about them. Forgets that they’re surrounded once more by people in broad daylight. Forgets about the way exhaustion still clings to her very fibers at the moment because college is stressful, but oh, at least she gets to experience it with Brittany this time around.

She forgets about it all.

Brittany is radiant beside her, brilliant and gold and perfect. She thinks she understands fully now what Brittany had meant when she told her that being around her made it feel as though her body was finally waking up.

And Santana has to kiss her.

—

She doesn’t remember much about the rest of their walk home.

Just a blur of scenery and the way Brittany would swing their arms between them, something giddy and natural about the motion. At some point she must have begun to doze because she briefly recalls the warmth of Brittany’s arm around her waist again, the steadiness of her shoulder when her head dropped to the side.

(It was a mistake to stay up finishing that assignment that wasn’t due for another couple of days. But she had a lightbulb moment when it came to the research, so she was keen to write it all down before she forgot about it.

The regret sets in deep now that she can barely keep her eyes open and her feet walking in a straight line without Brittany’s help.)

There’s a gust of warm air when they step into their apartment building, and Brittany’s chuckling lightly into her hair.

“You really can’t stay awake right now, can you?”

“Carry me,” Santana whines, leaning heavily into her side, and she doesn’t care how pathetic she sounds right now. Brittany is soft and warm, and her eyes keep drooping despite her best efforts to keep them open.

“Honey, I know you’re tired, but you’re going to screw up your sleep schedule if you crash right now.”

She scoffs. “It’s the weekend. It will right itself in time for Monday.” She smothers a yawn with the back of her hand, swaying in place when Brittany lets go of her long enough to kick her shoes off by the door, following suit soon after she regains her balance.

“San.”

“Britt.”

She rests her back against the apartment door, tilting her head up as she stares at Brittany through narrowed eyes.

“It’s not even 5 yet,” Brittany reasons. “We could eat an early dinner, then go to bed?”

Santana gestures toward the window. “Considering the sun sets so early these days, it may as well already be night.”

“You’re very whiny today,” Brittany laughs, hanging her jacket up on the coat rack before turning around and prising the coat from Santana’s uncooperative body. She then takes Santana by the shoulder, gently guiding her toward the bedroom. “When you regret this come Monday morning, don’t complain to me, okay?”

“I’m still going to complain to you.”

She almost trips on the door frame to their bedroom, but Brittany is quick to catch her, arms wrapping around her stomach from behind.

Brittany presses a kiss to her nape, lips soft and soothing against her skin. “I know. I still love you though.”

Santana sinks into the embrace. She’d fall asleep right here if she could. “I hope so.”

She tugs Brittany forward then, spurred on by the sight of their rumpled bed sheets from this morning, not bothered in the slightest that Brittany is still attached to her back, and she clambers onto the bed, falling face-first into the pillows.

Brittany laughs breathily, her weight comforting and familiar on top of her, and if she wasn’t cold and wanting to swaddle herself with the blankets, Santana would have been content to have Brittany stay there while she napped.

But Brittany eventually rolls off, no doubt aware of Santana’s need.

“It’s going to get colder,” she says, greatly amused.

Santana wiggles herself underneath their blankets, curling up on her side. She blinks, bleary and tired, and Brittany’s a bit out of focus, but she can still discern her grinning face from where she’s propped up on one elbow, gazing down at her.

“Not looking forward to it,” she mumbles, pressing the side of her face more determinedly against the pillows.

Brittany’s answering chuckle is distant as sleep rises up to claim her almost instantly, her body sinking into the mattress as her breath begins to even out.

She’s briefly aware of the way Brittany’s fingers frame her cheek, sweeping the wisps of hair behind her ear, where they linger, touch soft and warm. There’s a warm press of lips against her forehead, and Santana’s eyes flutter open, just long enough, to catch those blue, blue eyes watching her, impossibly adoring.

( _I will love you until infinity, Santana Lopez._

 _And I will love you until infinity too, Britt._ )

—

“Oh god, we had a dinner thing with Mercedes today.”

Her head is spinning, and she’s disoriented from her nap, and Brittany is — Brittany is _laughing_ at her from her perch on the couch.

Santana rubs the sleep from her eyes, stumbling out of the bedroom and into the living room, and she can’t believe Brittany is laughing at her for forgetting. No doubt Mercedes is also laughing at her — if she isn’t pissed that is — from whatever restaurant they left her waiting at.

Brittany rises from her spot on the sofa, placing her hands placatingly on Santana’s shoulders.

“It’s fine, I called her and canceled when you were still sleeping.”

Santana blinks, feeling a little lost, like her sense of time has been drastically warped and turned on its head. That disorientation that comes with falling asleep in the middle of the day and waking up on time for dinner. Apparently that feeling doesn’t change even when you’re an adult.

“Oh.” She drags her knuckles under her eyes, trying to shove away the remaining dredges of exhaustion from her body. “Thanks, Britt.”

“Of course.” Her grin turns sly. “I ordered Chinese though. I was going to get started without you if you hadn’t woken up by now.”

Santana gasps, affronted, pressing a hand to her chest. “You _wouldn’t_.”

Brittany removes her hands from her shoulders, shrugs, a perfect picture of innocence, but Santana knows better. “Sesame chicken waits for no woman.”

“I can’t believe this betrayal. My own wife.”

“Well, hurry up then, slowpoke.”

Santana darts to where the paper cartons are waiting on their dining table that can barely seat two people, and Brittany laughs, whole-hearted and loud, and for a moment, Santana completely forgets about the food because oh, that sound is everything to her.

Brittany takes advantage of her momentary lapse and snatches up the cartons before she can reach them, giggling and playfully taunting her as she chases her around the entire apartment for that single order of chicken.

(They end up painstakingly splitting the sesame chicken between them, twining their legs underneath the table and giggling every time they made eye-contact over their chopsticks.)

—

When they’re content and on the verge of a food coma, lounging on the couch, Brittany slips off the edge and onto her feet. She swings her arms at her sides, tilting her head with a gleam in her eye.

Santana observes her, blinking slow, quiet and expectant, but not wanting to move.

Brittany leans over her then, Santana’s nose scrunching when her hair tickles her cheeks, and Brittany takes her hands in her own. Squeezes them.

“Dance with me.”

And despite the full feeling in her stomach and the lingering desire to go back to bed — it’s been a long day — Santana has never been able to deny Brittany anything. _Least_ of all dancing.

So she allows herself to be pulled up and off the couch, Brittany’s arms wrapping around her waist, a warm and secure weight. Santana mimics the motion, catching Brittany around her shoulders, fingers locking at the base of her neck.

Their noses brush and their breath mingles in the small space between them, and there isn’t any music, but they’ve never needed any.

Santana feels the familiar pulse of Brittany’s heartbeat reverberating through her fingertips, and hers slows to match that steady rhythm. She presses closer, impossibly closer, their ribs slotting together, and Brittany hugging her tight without question, hands skimming beneath the hem of her shirt before skating upward, scorching a path that leaves Santana shivering.

And it’s here — here in the middle of their apartment in New York where Brittany turns them in slow circles, amber lamplight slanting across the living room and casting them aglow — that Santana swears she has never loved Brittany more.

**Author's Note:**

> i've had parts of this written since july to honor Naya, but i could never bring myself to finish it until now. so thank you for reading!
> 
> (also as someone who has decided that 8AM classes are how i'm finishing off my college career, i have many regrets lol)
> 
> title from: drunk on you (acoustic) by oh wonder


End file.
